The great hall was empty now, except for Jonmarc, Yestin, Eiria, and Gabriel. "There may be some dried herbs in the cook house that could make a poultice for that," Gabriel said with a nod toward Yestin's bruised check.

Yestin shrugged. "It'll heal. There's something else that concerns me more. The Winter Kingdoms haven't recovered from the fight to bring down Jared the Usurper. Had Martris Drayke not succeeded, it wouldn't have been long before every kingdom was at war— against Margolan, or on. its side. Now, the Council and the Truce are wavering. And there'll be more questions to come. I've heard that King Martris will have to go to war against Lord Curane before too long. There are vayash moru .in Margolan who intend to go with him. That will strain the truce or break it completely."

"Even the Sisterhood isn't what it once was," Eiria added. "The Flow's unstable, and getting worse. My people can feel it. It makes our shifting all the more difficult. When it's out of balance, the Flow's power favors blood magic, and light magic becomes harder to control. That bodes-badly for King Martris. Lord Curane is known to employ dark mages." She paused. "There are some among the Sisterhood who aren't ready to return to their citadels. When King Martris goes to fight Lord Curane, Sisterhood mages will go with him, whether the Sisterhood approves or not." "I'm not following your point," Jonmarc said, sipping his brandy.

Yestin turned his violet eyes on Jonmarc. "The point is that the old ways are in flux. Old bonds are being broken. The alliances that kept an imperfect peace for hundreds of years are fracturing. These are dangerous times. My people know something about shifting. One is never more vulnerable than when one is between what was and what will be. The war isn't over yet. It's just changed form."

"Then the Lady help us all," Jonmarc said, feeling a sudden chill despite the brandy. "Because we'll need it."

Deep in the forest, the hunter stalked his prey. The trail was clear. The smell of fear and sweat was heavy in the cold night air. Broken branches and fresh footprints left a path easy to follow. This night's quarry had given him a good run. The prey had been resourceful, at first. Now, panic overtook reason. The hunter smiled. His kill was near.

Malesh did not need to signal the other two uayash moru who hunted with him. This was their sport, and they were masters of the craft. Gradually, the circle would tighten. The prey would realize he was being herded. Malesh smiled. Soon, very soon, it would be over.

He could hear their prey stumbling ahead of him. The man sounded like a wounded bull. Malesh had watched this one for some time. Big and overconfident, stupid and cruel, no one would miss the man. There were already rumors in his village that he had something to do with the children that had disappeared, that he'd been responsible for his wife's bruises and black eyes. Malesh ran his tongue across his lips in anticipation.

Malesh spotted his fellow hunters in the forest shadows. The end was near. Even from a distance, Malesh could sense the big man's disorientation. The fear would make his blood all the sweeter. The truce with mortals had always given vayash moru free reign to kill human criminals of the worst sort. Some villages staked their murderers and their child-stealers beyond the outskirts as an offering to the vayash moru. But the Blood 'Council's truce mandated that the kill be quick, painless. Tasteless. Malesh's tongue flicked over his sharp eye teeth. Terror brought an edge to the blood that was lacking in a quick kill. Exertion gave the blood a headiness like champagne. Bullies and sadists were the sweetest. Perhaps they knew that they deserved no mercy, having granted none to their victims. Or perhaps their true fear was of the Crone or the Formless One, to whom their sullied souls would certainly go for judgment. Whatever the reason, by the time Malesh was done with' them, their victims would have been avenged a hundredfold. Though vengeance was hardly Malesh's goal.

The three vayash moru closed their circle, and their prey caught sight of them. At first, he brandished his weapon, but the vayash moru to Malesh's right disarmed the man, breaking his wrist in the process.

"Whatever you want, take it!" the man cried, falling to his knees.

"We will," Malesh replied. Even in the cold air, the man's hair was wet with sweat. None of the vayash moru showed any sign of exertion.

"Mercy, please!" the man begged.

Berenn, one of Malesh's fledglings, reached down and lifted the pudgy man by his doughy throat. "What would you know of mercy?" the young man asked coldly. Held in his unbreakable grip, the man gasped for air, his feet dangling inches off the ground. "Did you show mercy to any of the children you've buried in the woods? Any mercy to that wretch of a wife you beat?"

"I'll change, I swear it. I can do better."

Berenn's smile was remorseless. "You don't seem to understand. There are no second chances." He threw the man across the clearing, and Malesh heard bones snap with the force of the man's fall. The man tried to scramble to his feet, but his shoes slipped on the wet leaves and he fell flat on his face. He gasped and mewled, and the scent of urine made it clear he had soiled himself.

Senan, the other vayash moru, lifted the man by the scruff of his neck, laughing as their victim once again clawed at the air and struggled to get free. "I have gold hidden under the stone hearth. Take it—take all of it!"

Senan let the man fall into the wet loam and kicked him hard, turning him over. "We don't need your gold. There's only one thing of yours we want. Your blood." Senan drew his lips back and the pudgy man let out a whimper, shrinking back against the ground.

By agreement, the three let Senan draw first i blood. Senan reached down, moving slowly to heighten the terror in the. doomed man's eyes. "The Crone is waiting for you," Senan whispered as he drew the big man close to him. "Please, no: No, no—" Senan's teeth pierced the man's fleshy neck just to the left of his throat. The man stiffened but made no noise. After a moment, Senan drew back and threw the still living man to Berenn, who made a fresh puncture to the right of the man's throat and drank deeply.

The last draughts, the sweetest, the ones filled with mortal dread, were reserved for Malesh. The doughy man was quite pale when Berenn handed his limp body to Malesh, but Malesh could still sense the pounding heartbeat and the shallow breath. Malesh seized the man roughly, who groaned as his spine snapped, sending a last jolt of sweetness into the blood. Malesh went for the spot just below the man's ear, where the blood would run its final course before breath stopped, snapping the man's neck in the process. The broken body twitched in Malesh's grip as he gulped down the blood, letting the man's final terror fill him with intoxicating headiness. When there was nothing left but a bloodless husk, Malesh dropped the body. Not one speck of blood marred his frilled white shirt.

"Good hunt." Senan reached down and picked up the corpse by its collar and dragged it over to a large tree. "How shall we leave him?"

"He's had a hard run," said Berenn. "Let him catch a few winks."

Senan posed the corpse beneath the tree, its head down on its breast, while Berenn retrieved the dead man's hat from the clearing and put it on his head, pushing down the brim to shade his eyes. Senan clasped the man's hands over his ample belly and put one foot sole down, knee raised, while the other leg extended straight. They stood back to examine their handiwork. Unless someone looked closely under the dead man's collar, he might appear to be sleeping, taking a nap in the forest shade.